


ravenous beauty

by uyuwei



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: M/M, Mild Smut, but he's hot so that's fine, jongdae is a little bit of a bastard, writer x reporter au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:08:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26622679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uyuwei/pseuds/uyuwei
Summary: “Your lack of reactions to whatever bullshit I say just irks me. I really want to ruin you, Byun Baekhyun.”“I’d like to see you try…?”
Relationships: Byun Baekhyun/Kim Jongdae | Chen
Comments: 7
Kudos: 50
Collections: Lil' Something Fest 2020





	ravenous beauty

**Author's Note:**

> for garbage lovers only

* * *

Baekhyun stares at the rough sequence of grey painted buildings and congested roads, the way glass towers threaten to melt into the river, dying under rain and remnants of sun. Winter is cold and shallow and makes Seoul look like a musty spectacle of life and death. There’s a certain loneliness in the air, a distorted fragility piercing through Baekhyun’s skin. It’s tiring, somehow painful, and part of his soul just wishes he could run away. From that building, from everything.   
  


“Listen, Kim Jongdae is a complete piece of shit,” Minseok growls, words slurred, impatient, the taste of smoke scraping his throat. “The worst asshole I’ve ever met, so for fuck’s sake, don’t get on his nerves.”  
  
  
From the other side of the phone, Baekhyun can picture Minseok’s furrowed eyebrows, usual cigarette resting limply between his fingers. He can paint the wrinkles on his shirt, the scent of bitter coffee and cheap cologne. That fundamentally hurried nature cursing every gesture and word. Baekhyun sighs, the thought of Minseok’s crowded desk soon replaced by likewise packed roads and their captured civilians. He leans against the closed window, bored.  
  


“Tips?”  
“Limit your questions.”  
  
  
Minseok’s tone is rushed as usual, staggering between rudeness and disregard. Baekhyun can hear paper crushing under his fingers, background complaints about deadlines and time running and articles to change, sentences to erase. There’s a phone ringing somewhere, an assault of sounds, a woman asking who’s handling the infamous writer, in the end.  
  
  
“Questions are part of my job, though.”  
  


“Your job is listening to me, isn’t it?” Minseok’s reply makes Baekhyun roll his eyes in annoyance, fingers tapping against the window sill. “Byun, you’re still a rookie. You only got this task because no matter how relevant Kim Jongdae’s ass might be, I refuse to waste my time with his games.”  
  
  
“Hyung.”  
  
  
“Ask about the book. Let him explain the plot and other bullshits,” Minseok pauses for a moment, breath melting with smoke. “Readers will eat anything we give them, it’s fine. Don’t let him play with you, don’t cross the line.”  
  


But where exactly was, the line? Things one was allowed to discover, truths one could never steal. Baekhyun lets out a gasp he didn’t know he was holding in, traces of frustration that feel overwhelming on his skin. He wasn’t supposed to be there. Actually, from serving watered coffee to managing minor corrections, there were several things journalist Byun Baekhyun was never supposed to do. University days gave him so many hopes. But life is not really made of dreams, of warm rays of sun and laughs. Life is cold, and dirty, and it gives nothing back. It marches over expectations for fun. It turns aspiring reporters into their editor’s slaves.  
  
  
“Yes. I understand.”  
  
  
Baekhyun’s shivers die in the soft embrace of his coat. The moment the call ends, and Kim Minseok’s voice disappears in gasps of smoke, he directs his gaze to the closest door. There was no point in running away. Whether or not Byun Baekhyun was indeed given an awful task, the kind no other reporter craved, there wasn’t anything more to do.  
  
He distractedly listens to the soft ringing of the bell, a sequence of steps, all while adjusting his scarf. But when the door opens, and Byun Baekhyun’s eyes shift back in its direction, he finds himself despising — falling for? — a man’s arrogant smirk.

“Kim Jongdae. You must be my new toy.”  
  
  
  
  


·················

  
  


Baekhyun listens to flames hissing and living, fire crackling in the cold of winter. The soft orange hues paint ripples on the walls, a story about staining darkness, keeping windows closed, falling in the comfort of bottle green chairs. There are no pictures to steal. No books, not a single trace of actual humanity. The pile of impersonal furniture and untold words clutters their space in a sort of suffocating way. It’s barely anything, yet still too much.  
Baekhyun lets the scarf crumble on his legs, the fireplace’s warmth slowly seeping through his clothes. Kim Jongdae’s presence is imposing, but in a less direct, less obvious manner. One that has Byun Baekhyun’s heart quivering, from time to time, the hidden desire to ask him more questions than what he should. Whenever their gazes meet, something in the air shifts. Trembles.

  
“So you’re Minseok’s little boy,” Jongdae’s voice dances on the border between playfulness and seduction. It’s dangerous, irritating, and permeates the air with the taste of curiosity. “Specifically sent here to ask a bunch of boring questions, right?”  
  
“Kim Minseok is my supervisor,” Baekhyun’s reply is quick, doesn’t even waver, and somehow that has the other grinning in shameless excitement. “I’m sure it will be an interesting conversation, _Mister Writer_.”

  
Jongdae takes in every little detail about him: the mole on his thumb, the elegance of his fingers, the carefulness in each movement; how Baekhyun abandons the recorder on the small table in front of them, later crossing his legs without even noticing. It’s a portrait of beauty and natural goofiness. It’s pretty and simple and has Jongdae secretly begging for more, till there’s nothing left to steal. To eat. And when he ends up licking his own lips, slowly, somehow it’s like the reporter’s taste is already there. Part of him.  
  


“ _Mister Writer,_ ” Baekhyun is gentle, yet words sound confident in his mouth. The pen in his hand keeps kicking the notebook’s border and Jongdae thinks it’s cute how he absolutely cannot hide those glimpses of impatience. “Shall we start?”  
  


“As you wish.”  
  


“Derangement. The story of a man who despises his ordinary self so much, he kills anything that seems to keep colors away. Including his wife. Your first release in two years and you went for a psychological thriller, despite being known for… _mature_ romance, right? What happened? Were you just tired of the critiques?”  
  


“ _Homoerotic_ , not mature. I was so sure you were going to ask about my disappearance.”  
  


“Would you have answered?”  
  


“Who knows,” Jongdae chuckles, softly, while Baekhyun’s eyes can’t avoid falling on his legs. “Do you only ask questions when you’re sure you’ll get an answer, reporter?”   
  


Something about wanting to pinch — or bite — them, till he can clearly see his mark taint skin.  
  


“Do you want all of them? My questions,” Baekhyun’s gaze crumbles back on Jongdae’s face, looking for stories he wasn't even sure existed. But he longs for more, for so much more, despite his heart ringing in alarm — _don’t let him play with you, don’t cross the line.  
_

“All you have to give me.”  
  


“Oh Sehun,” Baekhyun breathes, half lost, as if the curiosity in Kim Jongdae’s eyes could somehow steal his soul. “Your characters have always been realistic. No matter how terrible or tedious, they come off as people everyone would meet at least once. Lovers from the past, simple extras in the background... all beautiful, in their own way.”  
  


“But?”

  
“But Oh Sehun feels incredibly empty, instead. So blank, it didn’t make your book sound poetic or intriguing or whatever you were going for, just sad,” the short pause between courage and growing regrets. “To be honest… I don’t think it was intentional.”  
  
Baekhyun catches the smallest crack in Jongdae’s smile, a thin veneer of utter fragility. His fingers quiver — if he could touch that soul, even just for a moment, would the universe collapse?  
Fire leaves pretty shadows on the writer’s face. When Jongdae moves a bit to the side, allowing Baekhyun to look for more details, not a trace of that vulnerability is left.  
  


“Oh Sehun is supposed to be a pathetic man. _Just_ a pathetic man. You read the book, didn’t you? From cheating to killing, he does it all. He’s an ordinary man living an unbearable ordinary life, reporter. Of course it’s an empty character.”

  
Jongdae crosses his legs, improvising through confident smirks and runaway eyes. He’s harsh, now. Words that sound bitter on the tip of his tongue. Whenever Baekhyun seems close to the truth, though, he just pours honey on each mistake: a seductive smile, a distracted caress. There’s something humiliating in admitting Oh Sehun is only a pitiful reflection.   
  


“To me, he’s more of an unrefined portrait. Yours, perhaps?” Baekhyun laughs, but the warmth in his voice turns Jongdae into a dangerous mess. With every word, his heart falls a little apart. “Ironically, this time the plot has more soul than the main character itself.”  
  
  
“What are you trying to say, Byun Baekhyun?”  
  


“To be honest, I’ve read all of your books. Every single interview. No matter how pretty or intense your words looked, I could never feel that certain vulnerability writers always end up showing. You know what I mean, don’t you? I couldn’t taste your soul,” Baekhyun’s tone is just so insanely calm and intriguing, all of a sudden, and Jongdae wishes he could rip him apart, make him cry, erase those crumbles of confidence from his lips. All of them.  
  
  
“This time, I caught a glimpse of yourself, Kim Jongdae. It was fun.” 

  
“So you’re a fan of my works,” he says, trying not to teeter. It’s obvious his fingers are fueled by a purpose, now, brushing against Baekhyun’s arm, his knee. Everything they can reach.  
  


“I mean... not really?” yet Byun Baekhyun doesn’t react, doesn’t let the writer catch even one of his quivers. “Before this book, I never liked your works, you know. They just came off as pretentious displays of talent. Derangement, though… the plot is banal, but your writing is real.”

  
“People read books because they want to get lost in some pretty bullshits. They want to escape from their miserable lives, pretend to be the main character somewhere…” Jongdae breathes, slowly, the idea of not having full control of the conversation making him go insane, making him scream inside. “Why? Why would you prefer reality?"

  
“Lies make me feel more exposed than truths.”  
  


“That doesn’t make sense, reporter.”  
  


“Lies reveal how far you’d be willing to go. Truths are just statements.”  
  


“To me, lies are beauty.”  
  


“I have another question,” Baekhyun talks after a while, as if his thoughts were busy dancing with twirls of smoke, and memories, and pure, disintegrating doubts. “In order to escape from his ordinary life, Oh Sehun murders his wife. But later, towards the end, he murders his new lover too. The prostitute, the one that convinced him to run away in the very beginning, and all because he craves those blank days from the past. Killing his new self… does that work? Your ending wasn’t clear.”  
  
  
An exhilarating pause.  
  
  
“Kim Jongdae, can killing one’s current identity help them go back to the past?”  
  


_No. No, it doesn’t._ Jongdae can’t talk for a while. He can’t think, nor feel. Scenes of two years spent in hiding flash through his mind with a certain haste. The man he was, the cocktail of naivety and greed, screams from a corner in the room. He’s in shambles. _He’s crying._ But he’s dead, too — and nothing else truly matters. _  
_  
  
“Why shouldn’t it, reporter?” Jongdae’s voice is intoxicating against Baekhyun’s ear. It’s dangerous, _ravenous_ , like childish stars setting hearts on fire. It sings him to the closest cliff, so convincing Baekhyun might actually fall. Jongdae hides a smirk against his neck, lips later dancing down exposed skin, as if it were only a game, as if it were just innocent fun. But his knee hurts between Baekhyun’s legs, their breaths melting has them both going a little insane. Suddenly, everything in the room seems to make a bit less sense.

  
“What if I told you I died two times, Byun Baekhyun? That I killed my first self in the name of fame. I killed my second self because I missed those blank days.”  
  


“Then I would laugh. No matter what happens, you won’t get those days back.”

  
When their eyes meet again, Baekhyun can’t help but notice how annoyed, yet surprised, Kim Jongdae looks. It’s just there, a sparkle of truth dissipating in his gaze.  
  


“Your lack of reactions to whatever bullshit I say just irks me. I really want to ruin you, Byun Baekhyun.”

  
“I’d like to see you try…?”

  
“I want to ruin you,” Jongdae whispers, again, right after kissing his earlobe. “Slowly,” before licking the latter. “Painfully,” the moment his tongue tastes Baekhyun’s lips, enjoying every single shiver.

  
“Are you not going to kiss me?”

  
“Would you beg for that?”  
  
  
“Please.”  
  
  
While collapsing in the warmth of Jongdae’s mouth, Baekhyun realizes how delicious _crossing the line_ can be. How exhilarating, and crushing, their connected lips feel. There’s a certain hunger that takes him over the edge, that has his fingers digging into the back of Jongdae’s neck, tongues begging, craving, dancing. Breaths stuck in their throat, as they both try to steal whatever they can. It’s almost natural how they later break apart, like somehow they could already tell what their needs are.   
There’s a moment, right before Jongdae drags him by the tie, in which Baekhyun doesn’t feel like himself at all. As if another man were on the armchair, before, and on the writer’s desk, now, disregarding anything in the name of a self-destructive desire.  
  
“Byun,” Jongdae bites his neck, forces Baekhyun to arch his back in pain, then pleasure, forces him to moan his needs. He's rude and harsh and prints kisses on candid skin, bathing in all the sweet reactions Baekhyun inevitably lets out.  
  
“ _Byun,_ you’re such an annoying little boy,” Jongdae growls, impatient, ripping open the reporter’s shirt just to taste more of his body. There are tiny bite marks on Baekhyun’s collarbones, now, traces of spit touching his nipples. There’s a bit of Jongdae everywhere. He’s not gentle, but still takes his time. As if something in Baekhyun’s harsh breaths and muffled moans were more interesting than sex itself.

  
“ _Mister Writer_ ,” Baekhyun lets his fingers play with Jongdae’s hair, kind of desperate, kind of demanding. From between his legs, the other displays a teasing smirk.  
  
  
“Baby?”  
  
  
“Stop playing.”  
  
  
“Should I?” Jongdae whispers against the inside of his thigh, later laughs over his still clothed cock. “It’s fun. I’m having fun.”  
  
  
“Just fuck yourself.”  
  
  
“But I want to fuck you.”  
  
  
Before Baekhyun could complain, though, or the other could throw his clothes on the ground, their little universe is destroyed by the sudden ringing of a phone. The distance between them hurts. It hurts. When Jongdae leaves to answer the call, Baekhyun just feels a little bit too cold. He returns his amused grin with the most awful pout. 

  
  
  


·················

  
  


“Another interview? But that’s boring, Junmyeon.”  
  
  
Jongdae distractedly listens to his manager complain on the phone, while his eyes just keep traveling along the sweet curves of Baekhyun’s body, the constellations of moles, the candid flesh he wishes he could scratch with his own nails. There’s something so pretty in the way the other’s face is a mess of embarrassment and desire. Those flustered cheeks Jongdae could kiss for entire nights.  
  


“Promo? Why should I care? Besides, you know I’m picky.”  
  
  
His gaze follows Baekhyun around the room. He doesn’t complain, nor pout, when the latter fixes himself up, adjusts his tie. When all of his things, recorder included, go back to their hidden spot, leaving no traces of Baekhyun in the space — in what was their universe, for a while.  
  
  
“Whatever,” Jongdae rolls his eyes, blocking the door before the reporter could leave. Once the call ends — a bothered sigh — he naturally traps Baekhyun in the warmth of an embrace.  
  
  
“Let me go, it’s late,” Baekhyun grumbles against his chest and Jongdae can’t avoid thinking how adorable that is, that sudden shyness impossible to hide. Eyes refusing to meet.  
  
  
“See you again, Mister Journalist?”  
  
  
“At the fansign,” Baekhyun whispers.  
  
  
“At the fansign,” Jongdae paints on his lips. Tastes like honey and imprudence.

  
  
  


·················

  
  


  
Baekhyun stares at the rough sequence of grey painted buildings and congested roads, the way glass towers threaten to melt into the river, dying under rain and remnants of sun. He’s not sure about what exactly happened. He doesn’t know when Kim Jongdae kissed him, why did it feel so good, why did he want more. So much more. Baekhyun doesn’t know, but the adrenaline in his veins makes him feel like a mess of thoughts and demands.  
If only he could go back.

  
  


·················

  
  


“Byun, I’m going to check the recording.”  
  
Minseok lets his cigarette die in the closest ashtray. He stares at the chaos of confusing notes and tiny black twirls Baekhyun gave him, while listening to Kim Jongdae’s annoying answers. Something shifts in the air, then — a man moaning, heavy breaths. His new reporter literally begging for a kiss.  
  
“Fucking Kim Jongdae.”

  
  


  
  


**Author's Note:**

> thanks to all the people i bothered with this and to my dearest shrimp for making me fall desperately in love with baekchen... i guess...
> 
> \+ psst! also thanks to the mods for allowing me to have fun with them, i'll never stop admiring you (and i'm glad you didn't notice my evil plan till the end♡)


End file.
